


Daddy's Girl

by danajeanne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Virtual Season/Series, carry on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:08:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3696926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danajeanne/pseuds/danajeanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode 19: A string of odd deaths in small town Ohio draw the Winchester brothers’ attention and they get another hard reminder: there is always a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daddy's Girl

**Author's Note:**

> This was co-written with Bayre. AO3 wouldn't let me add her as a co-author.
> 
> Way back when, a group of SPN fans got together and wrote a virtual season called "Carry On". The entire series can be found at http://www.spn-vs.com/browse.php?type=titles

PART ONE

The train whistle was still a faint background noise in the moonless night. Stacey chewed angrily at a piece of her dishwater blonde hair. I’ll show them, she thought. They think they can get away with messing up my life? I’ll totally destroy theirs, they’ll feel so guilty. I’ll be all they can think of.

A short burst of wind blew an empty soda can across the ground behind her, and she turned to watch it roll away. She pushed her glasses back up on her nose—why couldn’t I have that awesome surgery that Carol Williams in Algebra class had done? No, I’m stuck as the class ‘four-eyes.’ I’ll win in the end though. They’re going to be so sorry!

If she squinted—guess I need new glasses, and she laughed at the irony—she could just about see the bright white headlight shining from the powerful Amtrak engine. It was on time for once. All those stupid morons all they care about are their football games and cheerleading practice, she thought. Nobody gives a crap about brains anymore. Not even those stupid teachers. ‘I’m sure you’re misreading the situation, Stacey’, they said. ‘It’s your imagination, Stacey,’ said the dumb-ass Principal. Well, he’d be sorry, too. I win.

That’s a loud whistle, thought 13-year-old Stacey Anderson as she stepped onto the railroad tracks.

 

-o-

 

“Do you think those sprites are okay, and serious about being on our side?” Sam talked, but kept his gaze locked to the computer screen, not sure he wanted to see Dean’s reaction.

“Uh-huh.”

“What about what Bob said? That John was told to—” how was he going to even talk about this with his brother when they were, and always had been, at such odds over their parents?

Dean sighed dramatically. “I’m not entirely convinced Bob was really telling us the truth, or at least all of it.”

“Like just the version he wanted us to know?” Sam pursed his lips.

“Yeah.”

Sam ran his fingertips along the edge of his laptop. “I don’t want to fall in line and turn into some evil monster.”

“Sam,” Dean growled out a warning and flicked at the television with the remote, scrolling through channels too fast to be paying attention to what was actually on. “We’ve been through this, over and over, and I’m tired of it. You’re not going evil, you won’t turn into some monster and ifanyone thinks you’ll get with the program and do what you’re told they haven’t been paying attention the last twenty-three years.”

Sam went back to surfing the net, looking for what he wasn’t exactly sure, but he had the feeling there was something he needed to see. Dean harummppffttted and settled back, snickering every now and again at something on TV.

“Here’s something.” Sam looked up from his laptop to where Dean was again quietly surfing channels. When the only acknowledgment was a shifting of Dean’s eyes in his direction, he continued, “a teacher, principal and two students from the same school in Ohio have all died within the same two week span.”

“Died how?” Dean switched off the TV and shifted on the lumpy bed till he was facing his brother.

“First one was a suicide, a 13-year-old walked in front of a train. The adults are iffy, one was shot and one took a bunch of pills. No suicide notes from either, so the cops aren’t completely writing them off that way, although the one who was shot had residue on his hands. The other kid was twelve, hit and run, no witnesses.”

“Anything linking them together? Other than the school? And maybe the type of death?”

“Not so far.” Sam continued reading. “Hmm.”

“What, hmmmm?”

“Father of the first victim is psychic.”

“Dude’s psychic and he didn’t know his kid was about to step in front of a train?” Dean asked, face wrinkling in disgust. “Messy.”

Sam shrugged. He of all people knew things didn’t always work perfectly in the psychic world. “He’s helped the police and FBI—all over the state of Ohio—with missing persons cases. That’s all it says.”

“And is that all you’ve found for the rest of deaths?” Dean asked.

“Yeah. We’re not that far away, though, it’s a town called Fostoria.”

“Let’s go then, this place was getting boring.”

 

-o-

 

Getting to Ohio, more to the point, small-town Fostoria, Ohio wasn’t much of a chore. It wasn’t like Dean hadn’t spent his life driving all over the country. He liked to drive, it was peaceful and the car never complained about possibly going evil or wanted him to stop the Apocalypse.

The outside of the Fostoria Motel belied the wonders of mini-fridges in the rooms. That was about the only attribute, other than as far as Dean could tell the roof didn’t leak; he was a bit sick of water, deep, churning, infested water. He traded dry for noisy: the clatter of trains running nearby day and night certainly had to be a selling point for the motel.

Yee haa!

“So, who do we start with? Father of the train girl or family members of one of the adults?” Sam asked as he shut down his laptop.

“Why don’t we work our way backwards? Start with the last victim.”

Sam flipped through his papers. “That would be the principal, Randy Kochinowski. Shot himself in the head.”

“Sounds like suicide to me,” Dean commented as they headed out to the car.

“Yeah, especially since he had gunshot residue on his hand and the gun was in his lap.” Sam slid into the car and pulled the door closed. “Only reason they’re not closing the case is because of the other deaths.”

“Yeah, that would make me suspicious,” Dean said. He steered the car out of the parking lot and into the street. “What are the family members saying?”

“That their husband, or wife in the teacher’s case, would never kill themselves. They were happy, had lots to look forward to, the usual stuff. The Kochinowskis were actually leaving this week on a second honeymoon to Hawaii. I can certainly see why his wife would be fighting the suicide theory. Turn left at this next street.”

Sam rummaged around in the glove compartment, pulling out two badges. “FBI agents McCartney and Jones are on the case. It should be the third house from the corner.”

The Kochinowski residence was a small mid-50’s home in a quiet cul-de-sac. The lawn and garden were nicely manicured; it was obviously a well-maintained property. Dean pulled to a stop and parked across the street.

As they started to cross over an old Ford pickup truck slowly cruised by and Dean grabbed Sam’s arm to keep him from being hit.

“Stupid ass. Needs to learn how to drive.” Dean made sure the road was clear then gave Sam a shove. “And you need to remember to look both ways. I know I taught you better.”

Sam simply snorted and craned his neck to look in both directions before following his brother.

A young, red-eyed teenage girl opened the door to their knock.

“I’m Sam McCartney and this is my partner Dean Jones.” Sam flashed his FBI badge. “Is your mother in? We’d like to speak with her.”

Without saying anything the girl left them standing at the door and disappeared down the hallway. A few minutes later an older woman appeared.

“I’m Mrs Kochanowski. My daughter said you wanted to talk to me?” Her own eyes were red-tinged and the lines of grief on her face made her look years older than she probably was.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said softly. “We’re investigating the recent deaths from the Middle School. We’re very sorry for your loss.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You don’t think it was a suicide? The police—”

“We’re keeping an open mind, Mrs. Kochinowski. There’re a few too many coincidences,” Dean added. “Can we come in?”

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry.” She moved away from the entryway and led them into the living room.

 

-o-

 

“Food.” Dean smacked his lips. “That fancy GPS you have there find us a place?”

Sam fiddled with his phone.

“Never mind,” Dean said and made a sharp left hand turn onto Plaza Drive. “Here’s one.”

Sam looked up at the seedy looking corner café, aptly titled “Café”, and wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, looks…just your speed.”

“It’s food.” Dean parked the car and they crossed the street, Sam making exaggerated motions as he looked in both directions first. He wasn’t quick enough to dodge the smack to the back of his head, though.

The inside of the café wasn’t as bad as the outside had warned and the brothers were invited to “sit anywhere, I’ll be right with you” by an extremely chirpy lady with white hair and rosy, wrinkled cheeks.

“Think she was born the same time this place was built?” Dean whispered, then shrugged as Sam simply glared at him and slid into the booth across from him.

Chirpy lady turned out to be “Maude”—Dean did not snicker—who took their orders and brought their drinks over. The food was quick to follow and they were left in peace to quietly discuss the case.

“Okay, so what do we have? A girl stands and watches a train mow her down. The school principal, who by all accounts is happy, not depressed and has no reason to die blows his brains out. And Big Bird hatches an egg that Halle Berry pops out of and…?” Dean trailed off, waiting.

“Yeah.” Sam picked at the wrapping on his straw, but didn’t peel it off or use it.

“We need to take you to get that horn in the middle of your forehead shaved down.”

“Sure.” He’d moved on to playing with the food on his plate.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Dean finally asked, obviously tired of Sam’s monosyllabic grunts.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, my ass.”

“What if I end up evil?” Sam toyed with a french fry.

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I know you, Sammy.”

“But--”

“But nothing, Sam. I raised you. I changed your stinky diapers, warmed your bottles, taught you how to tie your shoes, wiped your snotty nose, cleaned up your puke—”

“Okay, Dean, I get the picture.”

“No, you don’t. I KNOW you. And I’m not going to say this again: there’s not an evil bone in your body. You don’t have it in you to be evil. So shut up about it. It isn’t going to happen.”

Sam opened his mouth, promptly shutting it at the glare Dean sent his way.

They finished eating in silence. Once the bill was paid they headed back out to the car.

“Ready for victim number two?” Sam asked.

“Yeah. The teacher?”

“Elaine Ramsey, taught physical education.” Sam soberly directed Dean to the house and in minutes they were parked in front of another 50’s style, well-kept up house.

Muttering something about Stepford homes Dean knocked on the front door. It was opened by a young, twenty-something male with a squirming toddler in his arms.

Sam started to show his FBI badge. “I’m Sam McCartney --”

“Sorry, can you hang on a minute? I was just about to call…I need to get Emma’s bottle…Um…Jesus. Come in. Sorry.” He nudged the screen door with his knee and Sam pulled it open the rest of the way. “This way.”

Sam and Dean followed him into the kitchen where a baby bottle was sitting on the stove in a pan of boiling water. They waited while the man they assumed was Paul Ramsey grabbed the bottle, tested the contents and settled himself and the little girl in a chair. Once she was quietly sucking away at her lunch, he spoke.

“You’re, what? FBI?” The bags under his eyes matched the exhausted tone of his voice.

“Yes, I’m Agent McCartney and this is my partner Agent Jones.” Sam quickly explained why they were there and quietly offered their sympathy.

“There was no reason…the police think it was suicide, but there was no reason for it.” Paul’s voice was shaking despite his obvious attempts to keep his emotions at bay. “She loves, loved her job, Emma and I, our new house…we’re just your normal, boring, happy family.”

“There wasn’t anything she was upset about?” Sam asked. “Maybe something going on at school?”

Paul thought for several minutes. “She was upset about one of her students committing suicide. Little girl walked in front of a train. ”

“Stacey Anderson,” Sam said. “Did your wife have any thoughts on why a thirteen-year-old girl would kill herself?”

“She was being bullied by her classmates, but I don’t know if that’s enough to kill yourself over. Kids are bullied every day; it’s a normal part of childhood. And it’s certainly not a reason for Elaine to commit suicide. The girl was in her PE class, but she was just a student, one of many. They weren’t close.”

“Was she home alone when she died?” Dean asked.

“Just her and our daughter. I had to work late that day and didn’t get home till close to 10 pm and by then…” his voice broke.

“Thank you for your help. We’re very sorry,” Sam reiterated as he and Dean stood.

Again there wasn’t much they learned, other than the person committing suicide had no symptoms, no reason and no history of drugs, drinking or depression.

“Victim number three is 12-year-old Paul Mullie,” Sam said as they headed back to the car and piled in. “Hit and run on the way home from school.”

“Any witnesses?” Dean started to pull away from the curb, then slammed on the breaks, his arm automatically reaching out to keep Sam from going through the windshield. “What the hell?

“Isn’t that the asshole that almost hit me this morning?” Sam asked, pealing Dean’s arm away from his chest. “And I’m not four-years-old anymore, dude, your hand isn’t gonna be much help now.”

“Shuddup,” Dean muttered as the Ford pick-up disappeared around the corner. “Think it’s following us?”

“Could be. Small town, though, maybe it’s a coincidence.”

Dean just grunted and steered the car on its way.

“You need to turn left up here. Kid’s parents live down that street.” Sam flapped his hand around Dean’s head.

The house Paul Mullie had lived in—and they soon found out was born and grew up in—was more modern than the others, a seventies split-level. Dean wondered when he’d managed to collect so much useless information about small town architecture. The drive was a steep one, so they parked on the street and hiked up.

Mark and Mary Mullie—that had to be some sort of joke—were exactly what Dean expected and from the look Sam wore, what he expected, too. They were the picture of suburbia. Neat, clean pressed jeans—the woman probably ironed them and her underwear—she wore a short sleeved pink blouse, he had on a nice, ironed and neat button down shirt.

Mark held his wife’s hand while they talked and did most the talking. Paul had been quite popular in school, more friends than his parents could keep count of. Honor Roll, drama club, golf club and he was taking advanced classes at the high school. A bright young boy with loving parents and an unlimited future.

Until he was found dead in a ditch along a road he often walked down on his way to the golf course.

“We realize the police have no leads, Mr. Mullie, but we find it a little alarming that there have been so many suspicious deaths associated with your son’s school,” Sam said quietly. “Is there any reason you can think of that someone might want to murder Paul?”

“Murder my son? He was 12 years old!” Mr. Mullie protested.

“People kill babies, age has nothing to do with anything,” Dean said bluntly.

“Dean!”

“What? It’s true.”

“Yeah, but—”

“It’s okay,” Mrs. Mullie said softly and took a deep breath. “He’s right. And if we want the person who killed our son caught, then we have to think of these things and answer questions like this. Unfortunately, the answer’s no.”

“Did he know the girl who killed herself?” Sam asked.

“Stacey? They were in the same PE class, but they didn’t hang out together. She had her friends and he had his,” Mrs. Mullie answered.

“Was he upset about her death?”

Mr. and Mrs. Mullie glanced at each other. “He didn’t really say much about it,” Mr. Mullie said. “It was just something that happened to a girl in his class and that was it. I don’t think he knew her, really.”

“Could we have the names of some of your son’s friends? A lot of times kids know things parents don’t,” Sam pointed out.

“I’ll try, but there were so many, he was so well liked among the other young people of this town.” They waited quietly as Mrs. Mullie jotted down some names and addresses, then took their leave. They’d barely stepped off the porch when they saw the tail end of the Ford Pick-up disappear around the corner.

“Okay,” Dean said. “Twice might be a coincidence, but three times? We’re being followed.”

“Or is he second-guessing us? Let’s see if he shows up again. He isn’t going to know which of the kids on this list we’re going to see first.” Sam slid into the car.

“That makes two of us.” Dean pointed out as he started the Impala and pulled away from the curb.

“The closest one is…” Sam fiddled with his phone GPS. “Chris Riddle. Turn right on Front Street. It’s number 446.”

They pulled to a stop in front of an old Victorian house, desperately in need of paint and a good lawn job.

“Stepford-less, thank God,” said Dean as they walked up the path to the front door, dodging a slew of toys and roller skates.

Sam ignored his brother and knocked on the door. It was opened by a little girl of about three who stared at Dean, then up and up at Sam. Her eyes widened and she ran away screaming something about a beanstalk and a giant at the front door.

Dean exploded in laughter while Sam glared at him. “Shame on you, Sammy, scaring little girls like that,” he spit out between guffaws. “Innocent little thing, never hurt you…”

“Shuddup, asshole,” Sam muttered as middle-aged woman came to the door. “Mrs. Riddle?”

“Ha. No wonder you scared my daughter, you are a big boy.” Her tone of voice insinuated the “big” entailed more than just Sam’s height and Dean stopped laughing.

“We’re from the FBI, agents Jones and McCartney. We need to speak with your son Chris.” Dean stepped slightly in front of his brother. “Is he home?”

“Yeah. What does the FBI want with a 13-year-old kid?” Mrs. Riddle didn’t budge from the doorway.

“We need to talk to him about his friend’s death. He was a witness to the hit-and-run, correct?” Sam asked.

She glanced from one brother to the other, then finally stepped back to let them in. “Chris! Get down here, some people to see you,” she hollered, before adding, at a slightly lower decibel, “I’m going to be here while you question him. I watch Law and Order and know my rights.”

Sam managed not to roll his eyes at her comment. He was grateful when Dean kept his mouth shut.

Chris was brat and a bully, Sam recognized the type before the kid had even opened his obnoxious mouth. Once the latter happened it was all Sam could do to keep Dean from smearing the over-weight snot across the floor, kid or not. It was hard to believe this kid was a friend to the oh-so-perfect Paul Mullie.

Said kid was completely oblivious to the reaction he was receiving from the Winchester brothers as he rambled on about Stacey and what fun it was to pick on her. Something she totally deserved, according to him and his friends.

“So did Paul bully Stacey, also?” Sam asked, making a concerted effort to keep his voice even.

“Yeah. We all did. She thought she was better than us, always sucking up to the teachers and getting in our way. It’s fittin’ she ended up a smear on the railroad tracks.”

Sam could almost see the quotes hanging around that last sentence and wondered what adult had said it in his hearing. He glanced over at Mrs. Riddle, whose face was slowly turning red. Ah, that’s where.

“So you didn’t see any cars near your friend that day after school?” Dean tried to get things back on track.

“Nope, no cars,” Chris said blithely.

Sam wondered if he even cared that his friend had been killed. Then the way the kid had said “no cars” hit him. “Any motorcycles? Trucks? Vehicles of any kind?”

“Just a dirty old truck going around the corner.”

“And you didn’t think to let the police know about this truck?” Dean asked, jaw clenched.

“Nobody asked.”

“What kind of truck?” Sam quickly inserted before Dean could say anything else.

“Just a dirty one. Maybe reddish. Old.” Chris looked up at the clock. “Are you done now? My show’s coming on.”

“Yeah, we’re done. Come on, Sam.” Dean was up and out the door almost before he finished speaking. Sam jumped up and followed. Neither said a word to the Riddles as they let the front door slam behind them.

When they pulled away from the curb, both looked around for the Ford pick-up. It wasn’t anywhere in sight.

  
PART TWO

The next morning they were up bright and early, ready to go talk to Stacey’s dad. Sam had the coffee brewing when Dean came out of the shower. It promised to be an interesting—and hopefully informative—day. Dean wasn’t sure what to make of Anderson or how Sam was going to react once they met.

“So he’s psychic,” Dean said as he finished dressing and reached eagerly for his first morning dose of caffeine.

“Yeah. Helped the police find a couple missing kids last year down in Columbus. He’s been doing that stuff for more than 20 years. Seems to be a good guy, highly thought of in the community. At least according to the newspaper reports,” Sam said softly, sipping at his own coffee.

“Yet his daughter offs herself.” One eyebrow shot up.

“Yeah, well…” Sam shrugged. “Guess we know why now.”

“Because of bullies?” Dean voice was skeptical and the other eyebrow moved to join the first.

“It happens, Dean. Not everyone has their own personal human shield. Some kids have no one to turn to or trust.” He tossed his empty cup into the trash can. “Score.”

Dean stopped mid-swallow and put one hand on Sam’s arm. “You do hear what you just said, right?”

Sam offered him a tiny smile and nod. “Yeah, Dean I heard, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t scare me though, when I think of what our bullies are and what they can do.”

“I guess it’s sort of the same thing. Difference is you’re not alone.” Dean rubbed his fingers over his coffee cup. “I guess it’s too bad that little girl felt she was.”

They left the motel and drove quietly, other than Sam issuing the occasional directions, to Stacey’s home. He got a few sidelong glances from Dean, but whatever was going on in his brother’s head stayed there for the time being. Sam had the distinct impression Dean was feeling a bit proud of himself just then.

When they pulled up to the house, Dean cut the engine and they sat there staring at it. “Think he’ll know we’re lying about who we are?”

Sam shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.” He pushed out of the car and stopped two feet from it, pointing to the back of the house. “Dean.”

“I see it.”

Gun out Dean stalked around the side of the tree-shaded house, Sam on his heels. They stopped at the edge of the house and looked down the long drive to the garage in the back. The garage with a dirty red pick-up truck parked in front.

Someone cleared their throat. “Can I help you?”

“Um…ye-yeah, yes, we’re from the FBI, I’m Agent McCartney and this is Agent Jones,” Sam stammered. Waving one hand back and forth between him and Dean, who was still holding his gun, now lowered, “Sam, this is Dean.”

Dean’s gaze shifted nervously between Sam and the man standing in front of them. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Sam’s face at once took on a slightly pinched look, not the all out pain of a vision, but there was something. If only he could figure out what.

Static buzzed in his ears for a few seconds before he caught a few words…Sam can’t hear us, we can’t get through to him…Dean can…warn him…Dean remembered not to shake his head and hit one ear with the heel of his hand. He opened his mouth to ask what he was supposed to warn Sam about but closed it fast when his brother’s hand landed firmly on his shoulder.

Sam coughed, mumbled, “Dean,” and dipped his head to Dean’s gun.

Dean followed Sam’s line of sight and realized he was still holding his gun. Chuckling and clearing his throat at the same time, he shrugged and tucked it away behind his back. “Sorry. You own that truck?” He wanted to go to the truck, take a much closer look at it but another sudden burst of static and the words Sam is too susceptible kept him in one spot. Unless he could come up with a reason to take his brother with him, they were staying right where they were.

For once this stupid angel radio was actually being helpful. Dean simply had to figure out the details.

“Yes, it is.”

“Mr. Anderson, we’re here looking into the rash of sudden deaths at the local middle school. Our sympathies to your family. We understand your daughter, Stacey, she was the first?” Sam squinted a second at the guy. Dean heard how he cut off too abruptly and realized Sam almost said the word victim. Sam wheezed a short cough, shuffled a bit but didn’t really go anywhere and took out a notepad.

Something odd was definitely going on.

“So, which of you is Jones and which is McCartney again?” Anderson put his hands on his hips and looked from one to the other.

Yep, the guy knew.

“I…um…I’m uh…” Sam’s lips curled into a very nervous smile for a split second then still holding his pen he rubbed at his forehead. “Sorry, sunglare.”

Don’t want to live rampaging through Dean’s head was cut off by static.

Dean plastered his best smile on his face and stepped forward so he was between Anderson and his brother, holding out his hand. “Dean, and this is Sam. How about we keep it simple and informal.” Twisting far enough to point a thumb at the truck Dean sighed and shook his head, trying to appear confused, which he actually was so it wasn’t too much of a chore. “Someone tried to run us down in that truck yesterday, twice.”

“That truck doesn’t run.” Anderson smiled and it gave Dean the creeps. Waving at the vehicle he said, “Go on, check for yourself. Search it all you want.”

“Ah,” Sam’s voice was nervous and it cracked, “there’re probably a dozen just like it in this county, and I’m sure it wasn’t intentional and that’s not why we’re here. If we could ask you a few questions about your daughter, about Stacey?”

“I loved her more than anything, but I suppose you two know about that already.”

It wasn’t a question, or even a comment, to Dean it came off more as a challenge. Tread carefully, speak wisely came the warning in his head and he wondered, was it from him or an angel. He didn’t care, it was good advice. When Sam started fumbling for an answer, Dean stepped forward, this time squarely between his brother and Anderson. He dropped all expression off his face and asked, “Do you know what led to her suicide?”

Anderson stared back for a second before stuffing his hands into his pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking smug when Sam dropped the pen, then the pad and seemed to have a hard time retrieving them. “I do. She was being bullied at school. Not simply kids being kids or doing some picking on someone, but out and out bullied to where she was afraid to leave the house. She went to the teachers, and the principal. Got the same answer from them all, kids do this, it’s part of growing up, Stacey needed to let it roll off her and deal with it, that it would make her grow up.”

“And you don’t find it odd that those same people are now turning up dead?” Dean asked.

Anderson shook his head. “I never gave it much thought. I frankly don’t care. Maybe they’re simply getting what they deserve.” He looked from one to the other, landing a hard stare on Sam that the kid nearly wilted under. Dean hadn’t seen that reaction in his brother since…well not really ever. “Are we done here?”

“Ye-yes, sir, we are.” Sam stammered and started back to their car, grabbing at the back of Dean’s jacket on the way by. He tripped a few times trying to walk faster and still look casual. Dean got the distinct impression what Sam really wanted to do was run.

“Thank you.” Dean nodded to the man, who nodded back. He literally felt the guy’s eyes boring into his back and glanced over his shoulder for a second when more static erupted in both ears, dying away as he reached the car a few steps behind Sam.

Sam was leaning against the passenger side, breathing a bit hard. “Let me in,” he snarled the words the second Dean was close enough to unlock the door.

“Sam, what the hell was that?”

“Unlock the door and let me in or I’ll break the damn window and do it myself.”

“All right. Calm down.” Dean reached around his brother and slipped the key into the lock, turning it and then opening the door for Sam. “Left your keys again?”

Sam ignored him and tumbled into the car, immediately bending at the middle, elbows on his knees, rubbing his forehead with both hands. “You believe him?” Dean asked. Sam’s head turned to Dean when he opened the driver’s side door and settled behind the wheel.

“Oh, hell no. You?” asked Sam.

“Nope.” Dean glanced sideways at Sam. “I want an explanation.”

Now Sam had both hands pressed against his eyes. “Can we go back to the motel, please?”

The hitch in Sam’s voice and the tremor made Dean nod and start the car, heading back to their motel. After a mile or two Sam relaxed, let his hands drop to his lap and leaned back against the seatback. “Are you okay?”

Sam nodded and rolled his head so he faced Dean. “Yeah, I think so. I don’t know what happened. I felt like my whole head was wrapped in gelatin and it was like someone wanted me to do something or feel something I didn’t want to. Which isn’t exactly right, but I don’t know how else to explain it.”

Deciding to let it drop for now, Dean kept his mouth shut the rest of the drive back. Once back in their room his brother reverted to himself, more or less. Sam stood at the table, shuffling papers around, looking through their files.

“The guy’s a psychic, Sam.”

Sam looked up. “I know.”

“His kid dies and he blames these people and honestly, maybe they are to blame, I don’t know. But what if he’s using some…” Dean whistled and twirled one finger in a circle next to his head.

“Dean that’s…”

Planting both hands firmly on the table, Dean leaned forward and quirked an eyebrow. “That’s what?”

Sam huffed a slow breath and nodded. “Entirely possible.”

“What happened back there?”

“I don’t know, I don’t,” Sam sighed and shrugged. “I felt all jumbled and wrong. Kieran Anderson scared the crap out of me and I don’t even know why.”

Dean reached across the table and squeezed Sam’s shoulder. “Good. These things should scare us.”

Hooking a chair with his foot, Sam dragged it over and sat down, not looking at Dean, but arranging the files again. “What did Bob tell you? At the lake?”

“That we have to kill dad to stop the Apocalypse.” There he’d said it, told Sam. He was going to have to anyway and Sam knew there was something.

Barely glancing up, Sam shoved one file under another and flipped the second one open. “Oh.”

“Oh? I just tell you we have to kill our father and you say oh?”

“Yeah. John’s a demon. Dad died over a year ago.” He shrugged again and flipped one file around for Dean to see. “List of Anderson’s solved and unsolved police cases.”

“Which does nothing to help us. Sam I can’t believe what I’m hearing, this is Dad.”

“What was it? The rules? Do what we do and shut up about it! Do what we do no matter the cost to us, no matter how it affects us? Isn’t that what you and Dad spent years drumming into my head? Besides I didn’t see him caring much about my health when he was trying to kill me. If it’s between that thing or us, I’m picking us every time.” Sam swiped at the papers on the table, hitting his other fist against it so hard the table bumped a few inches over the floor. “And no, Dean, it’s not Dad. Dad’s dead, we burned his body.”

“And I burned yours…”

Sam didn’t say anything as he watched the expression on Dean’s face go from angry to pained and remorseful.

“Sammy—”

“Maybe we should concentrate on this case, which we can do something about and not on a demon we can’t do anything about at the moment .” Sam stood abruptly. “I’m hungry, want anything?”

“No.” Dean stood there, mouth open and watched as Sam grabbed his wallet and jacket and headed out the door.

-0-

Sam drove aimlessly around Fostoria for a while before finally pulling to a stop in front of the Café. He couldn’t believe Dean had said that about burning his body or that he’d compare it to their dad’s situation. There was nothing at all similar there. Dad had gone to Hell and come out a demon. Sam had gone…actually, he had no idea where he’d been yanked from, but he knew he wasn’t a demon. At least not yet. No, he had a choice, he was the only one who could decide how to use his powers.

He thought back to something Missouri had whispered to him back when he was playing host to Timmy, the little ghost boy: “Trust yourself, Sam. When the time comes you’re going to make the right choice”. She was a psychic who saw the future so if she saw him not turning evil, then, maybe… She could be wrong though. Or not.

Even Bob had assured him that nothing untoward had been done to him while he was dead, that all Azazel had done was bring him back, and that it didn’t make him evil. “The gift you were blessed with is yours. It was always yours … Just because someone is touched by an unwantedevil it does not make them evil. What you choose to do with your life, it’s your choice. You have just as much good as you do evil and what part you use, no one can decide other than you. ”

And Dean, of course, had a complete mental block when it came to thinking Sam might turn evil.

So who should he believe? A couple of demons? Even if one was their father. Maybe, especially since one was dad. He’d certainly never listened to Sam growing up, never explained anything, never believed in him: sometimes Sam doubted their dad actually loved him. All they’d ever done once he found out what their dad did was fight and argue. Why should he believe what their Dad was telling them now? Especially now?

Missouri was a good person. Sam didn’t doubt that for a moment. Bob was an Angel; an aggravating, winged jerk at times, but still… an Angel. And except when they were little and Dean was hiding the hunting business, he’d never lied to Sam, especially not about something as important as this. So who was he to believe?

He quickly placed a to-go order for both he and Dean, then slid into a booth to wait. His head down, he stared aimlessly at the glass-topped table and jumped when a voice spoke up behind him.

“Hello, Agent McCartney.” It was Anderson. “Or is it Agent Winchester?”

Sam could feel his eyes widen as he searched for a response.

“Mind if I join you, Sam?” Without waiting for an answer Anderson sat down.

“C…can I h…help you with something?” Sam stuttered out, feeling like an idiot.

“I think it’s more like I can help you,” Anderson replied, smiling, a dimple in his left cheek appearing.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “How so? Did you remember something about your daughter?”

“No, this is about you, Sam. You’re psychic. And it scares you.” Anderson leaned back in the booth and waited.

“How…” Sam stopped. Stupid question, how did he know? “What makes you think it scares me?”

“Sam. Sam, Sam, Sam.” Anderson shook his head, a look of fond amusement flying across his face.

“I’m psychic, Sam, it’s my gift to know these things.”

Sam was hearing the words, but Anderson’s mouth wasn’t moving.

“Get out of my head,” Sam said through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to reassure you. I could tell earlier that you were worried about your powers because the fear was rushing out of you like water from a broken dam. It still is. You don’t have to worry, Sam, you’re a good person and whatever choice you feel you have to make you’re going to choose the right one.”

“You don’t know what I’m up against?”

“Not exactly, no. I’m just getting feelings and a few muddied images. But it’s enough to know that you’re doubting yourself and that you’re afraid for…. Dean? And your dad. And you don’t want your powers to make you do bad…evil things.”

“But—”

“No buts. You use your powers, Sam, they don’t use you. You’re the only one who can control them and you decide how you’re going to use them. You can use your gifts for good of humanity; I help the police find people who’ve gone missing. Just because you run into the bad that’s out there, doesn’t mean you have to contribute to it.”

“Why didn’t you see what was happening with your daughter? You could have prevented—” Sam stopped, horrified at what he’d almost said, but it was too late.

Anderson sighed, his eyes filling. “I could have prevented her suicide?”

“I apologize, that was uncalled for,” Sam said contritely.

“It’s okay, it’s nothing I haven’t considered many times myself. But I try hard not to invade others minds; there’s etiquette for psychics you know. Or maybe you don’t.” Anderson eyed him curiously. “One of the first rules is not to ‘read minds’ without permission.”

“You read my mind,” Sam accused. “I felt… something.”

“No, not at the beginning. You don’t know how to hide psychically, Sam. What you were feeling was my attempt to shield you and myself, but it’s not something I’m good at so you were able to sense what I was trying to do. Your mind is wide open and your fears and loathing and self-doubts are woven around you for anyone to see. It’s one of the reasons you have such difficulty with some of the … things you run into. ”

“You know what we do,” Sam said flatly. He tapped his fingers against the table top.

“Yes. You and your brother are hunters. In fact,” Anderson straightened up, looking hopeful, “there is something you might be able to help me with. Stacey…I didn’t find out she was being bullied until after she died. She appeared to me and showed me her diary. It was all in there, the kids who’d been picking on her, the teachers she told, the principal who told her…Well, it doesn’t matter. What matters is I need to know if she’s still here, or has she moved on? I don’t know how to tell.”

Before Sam could comment, the waitress—a different one from yesterday’s Maude—brought his order over. After she left, Sam made getting up and leaving motions before finally answering Anderson. “If you haven’t seen her since that one time, then it’s pretty likely she’s moved on. I need to get this back to my brother. Um…thank you.”

“You’ll think about what I’ve said?”

“Yeah. Yes.” He crawled out of the booth and stumbled to the door not sure what to think about that strange conversation.

PART THREE

“He can read your mind,” Dean said flatly, playing with the left-over lettuce from his burger.

“No. Yes. Not exactly,” Sam sputtered.

“Well? Which is it, Sammy?” He flicked a piece of tomato at Sam.

Scowling, Sam slowly explained, again, what Anderson had told him at the café.

“And his daughter’s a ghost.” Dean leaned back in the hotel room’s easy chair and crossed his arms. “You don’t see anything wrong with this picture?”

“I don’t think he’s the one killing the people, Dean, I think it’s Stacey.” Sam’s chin lifted and he looked at his brother, jaw clenched as though expecting an argument.

“I don’t agree, but!” Dean held up one finger. “It’s a possibility and not something we should ignore.”

“He’s only seen her once,” Sam offered.

“Then maybe it isn’t her.” Dean shrugged. “We can solve that question with a little salt and gasoline.” He gathered up the detritus from their lunch and stuffed it into the tiny trash can under the table.

Sam wrinkled his nose. He really hated it when the corpses were…. fresh. “Yeah. But. I don’t know.”

“So what is it about Anderson that made you change your mind about him being the murderer? Because you were pretty open to it when we left the house this morning. Is it simply that he played all nice and sympathetic to you at lunch?”

“Maybe.” Sam’s gaze wandered around the room before coming back to settle on Dean.

“Huh. And what’s your spidey sense tell you?”

Sam frowned. “My spidey sense is so confused it doesn’t know which end is which.”

“You know we have a problem if he really can read our minds,” Dean said. Giving his soft drink cup a little shake he slurped at the remainder of the coke.

“He doesn’t do that. There’s psychic etiquette,” Sam protested.

Dean snorted. “What, an Emily Post Guide to Psychic Good Manners?”

“No. Shut up.” Sam slouched back in the chair and crossed his own arms.

“Sam. Shit. Look, he might be killing people, you can’t…we can’t just automatically trust him because he’s being nice to you about your powers. He says he doesn’t read minds, but how do you know he wasn’t planting ideas in your head at the restaurant? That this wasn’t some plan of his to get you on his side?”

“I don’t,” Sam mumbled. “It’s just… he knows how I feel. I’ve never talked to anyone about this and it felt kind of good to actually have someone understand exactly what I was feeling and what it’s like to be different.”

There really wasn’t much Dean could say to that. He certainly had no idea what it was like to have powers like Sam’s that couldn’t be controlled very well. He could sympathize with what his little brother was going through, try to support him and of course they always had each other’s backs. But know what Sam was going through? No, Dean couldn’t do that. He also couldn’t let Sam go off half-cocked thinking Anderson was a good guy when there was a damn good chance he was the asshole murdering innocent people out of a skewed revenge for his daughter.

“I understand what you’re saying, Sam,” Dean said softly. “But I think we still need to be careful, you know that. We don’t live by that innocent until proven guilty crap, believing that is what gets hunters killed. So, how many cemeteries are in this podunk town?”

Sam pulled his laptop over and started tapping away. “Two, Fostoria Fountain and Saint Wendelyn. And, quite conveniently for us they’re across the street from each other. Wendelyn is the smallest, so I suggest we check that one first. In the meantime I’ll do a little more research on Anderson, just for you.”

“Okay. How about I drop you at the library and I’ll go wander around the cemeteries and see if I can find Stacey’s grave, give us a head start for tonight?”

Sam nodded as he shut down his laptop and gathered up their paperwork that was nicely and neatly stacked once again on the table, before following his brother out the door.

 

-o-

 

Dean was frustrated. He was pretty sure that tonight’s salt and burn was going to be a waste of time, but if it was the only way to convince his brother that Anderson was the bad guy here, then that’s the way it had to be. It bugged the hell out of him that Sam was being swayed so easily, even more so since Dean didn’t really have anything to counteract what Anderson was doing. All he could do was hope the salt and burn went quietly and no angry little girl ghost popped up to complain. Then they could buckle down and look for proof of Anderson’s actions. Someone had to have seen him in the vicinity of the victims at the time of their deaths.

It didn’t take him long to check out Saint Wendelyn, it didn’t look like anyone had been buried there for at least 50 years. The larger Fountain was the lucky cemetery then. He sighed and dashed across the street deciding to start at the right and work his way across. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find a relatively recent grave.

He’d only been wondering the rows for about half an hour when he heard footsteps in the gravel behind him and he turned to find Anderson coming up the path.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean turned and kept his face no-nonsense and looked calmly at Anderson. “Hi there. Nice day for a walk.”

Anderson walked casually around him, glancing off the walkway to a section of newer graves. Obviously that was where his daughter was buried. “You’ve met people like me before.” He stopped and pointed one finger at Dean then pulled that same hand to his face and rubbed at his chin. “You interest me.”

“Don’t swing that way, dude.”

The memory of his rifle nozzle sliding into his mouth forced its way forward in Dean’s mind. Mentally shaking himself he shoved it away. Static erupted in his head but a few muffled words skipped through…want to…die…your gun…Dean stuck his hands in his pockets and bunched his fists tight for few seconds using the way his arms cramped to concentrate and keep his breathing even.

“Sam doesn’t know, does he?”

“That I don’t swing that way? Oh hell yeah, Sam knows.”

Anderson walked around him, stopped near a newer section of graves, glancing over. Dean’s own gaze was pulled in that direction. “You can’t fool me, Dean.” Anderson stopped and turned, facing him, head cocked to the side. “Yet, I can’t really read you. Interesting.”

Take your gun, put it in your mouth, you did it before. Dean shrugged and scratched at the back of his head when more static slithered through his thoughts. “I live with my very own psychic. Comes with the territory I guess.”

Anderson’s lips curled up in what probably was meant to be a placating smile, what it looked like instead was a lunatic grin. “Sam has no clue what to do or what he has. He’s mess and doing nothing more than slipping and muddling along and you know it.”

“I thought you guys had some sort of etiquette or rules or something.” Dean tried ignoring how his heart was jackrabbiting in his chest and how he wanted to shoot not only himself in the mouth, but this guy as well.

Snorting, Anderson leveled a harsh glare at him. “Leave my daughter and her grave alone.”

“Leave my brother alone,” Dean shot back, voice raised more than he intended. More static and more disjointed words—gun…mouth…want to die.

“You have nothing here to investigate. Leave.”

Take your brother and run, Dean. Static. Swallow your gun and pull the trigger. Static.

Anderson started walking away, stopped and turned far enough to look at Dean over his shoulder, chuckling. “Oh and really, Dean, there is no such thing as angels watching over you.”

“That’s what you think. I know better,” Dean muttered and stood watching the man’s back recede. In tiny increments the tension left his muscles and his body relaxed. He drew in a few deep breaths and looked around the cemetery. “Bob, now might be a good time.”

Nothing answered him but a slight breeze wafting the treetops.

 

-o-

 

Sam flipped slowly through the stack of articles he’d found on Anderson. It had to be the daughter, this man had a string of nothing but good and kind acts going back to when he was in college.

Dean was wrong this time. Except that Dean was almost never wrong about these things which was completely and utterly annoying. This time he had to be wrong.

Sam shivered when for no reason an image of his brother holding a rifle to his own mouth popped into his head. Dean wants to die, you know that, always have. He needs to die.

“Huh?” Sam looked up, expecting to see someone standing there. The words had been heard so plainly and clearly. He was alone in the corner of the library he’d settled in. Half a room away and straight ahead was a children’s section and there were a few small kids and accompanying adults sitting on brightly colored carpet squares. To the right was the check out counter and glancing left, Sam saw a music and video section.

Dean sat in the bushes and put the rifle nozzle in his mouth.

Sam shuddered and started gathering up the papers to return them. He’d always known that Andy’s whacked out psycho of a twin had done something to Dean, threatened him somehow, but he’d never seen anything and Dean never told him.

Sat in the bushes and put the rifle nozzle in his mouth.

Could that have happened? Sam still had nightmares over what he didn’t know about that night with Andy and his brother.

“Something wrong, Sam? You don’t look so good.”

Head jerking up, Sam pushed away from the table and off the chair, nearly tipping it and himself over backwards. “I…uh…no…I’m…” He faked a quick smile. “Headache.”

“I could give you a ride back to your motel if you’re not feeling well,” Anderson offered with his own smile Sam was sure was equally fake. Reaching out he put two fingers on the papers Sam had been reading, twisting them around. “Checking up on me? What did you find out?”

“That you’ve spent a lot of time doing a lot of good things for a lot of people.”

“And look how I was repaid. How my daughter was repaid.”

Sat in the bushes and put the rifle nozzle in his mouth.

Sam swallowed around the dry stop forming in his throat. “There is legal action you could take.” His voice sounded weak and unsteady.

Anderson nodded, crossing both arms over his chest. “There is. But who gets punished, really? The families of the people who didn’t do their jobs because they’re now financially ruined? Or the school children denied programs and funds for their school. That simply creates more victims.”

Palms planted flat on the tabletop, Sam leaned on it heavily. He didn’t feel very good all of a sudden. Thoughts would form and skitter away. The only clear thing in his head was the image of Dean putting a gun barrel into his own mouth. “I…um…I have to…my brother will be meeting me soon.”

“Ah, yes, your brother. He’s very important to you, isn’t he? Pretty much all you have.”

Feeling like a chastised five-year-old Sam stood there and nodded. “We all have choices.” How he managed to get the words out, Sam had no idea.

Sat in the bushes and put the rifle nozzle in his mouth.

“Yes, we do.” Anderson moved around the table placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You and your brother should choose to leave.”

Sam wanted to twist away, slug the guy in the nose, anything to get away from him. Gaze drifting to Anderson’s face, Sam drew in a slow breath. “Dean was right. You didn’t have to hurt them.”

“They didn’t have to treat Stacey the way they did. See? Choices. Everyone has choices.”

Anderson’s hand slid down Sam’s arm until his fingers curled around Sam’s bicep. He guided Sam around the table and to the door, tightening his grip when Sam tripped over his own feet. “Get out of my head,” Sam tried for a snarl, but it came out more like an anemic plea this time.

Sam wanted more than anything to get away from this man and find Dean. The harder he tried the more his brain seemed unable to function clearly. His feet followed along with Anderson against his will. The thought wormed its way through Sam’s mind, he could be forced to stand in front of a train, jump off a cliff, anything and he’d be powerless to stop it.

The fear coiling inside him turned to terror when he realized he was being guided out of a car without any real knowledge of getting into the car or being driven anywhere.

“I have something that’ll make you feel a lot better.” Anderson nudged Sam up the few steps to his front door and pushed him inside the house.

Digging in his pocket and finding his phone, Sam fumbled with it. “I need to call Dean he’ll be worried about me.”

Anderson took the phone and replaced it with pills. “Take those. You’ll be seeing Dean soon enough.”

Gulping down the pills Sam stood rooted to that spot, watching Anderson scroll through his phone. “Did you drug them all? Is that how you got them to kill themselves?”

Grunting a short laugh, Anderson shook his head. “Hell no, those sheep didn’t need drugs. You’re a tough nut to crack though. So is your brother. The two of you should have chosen to leave well enough alone. I made sure Stacey’s killers were brought to justice.”

The room swooped in a lazy up and down motion. It took Sam a few seconds to realize it wasn’t the room rocking it was him swaying on his feet. Reaching out with one hand, he stumbled toward Anderson. “Gimme me ma phone back.”

Easily stepping out of Sam’s reach, Anderson shook his head. “I’ll just call Dean and have him come collect you. Whew, that brother of yours is even harder than you are to get through to.”

Sat in the bushes and put the rifle nozzle in his mouth.

The room started darkening, first along the edges then it closed in around Sam. His final sensation as everything went black was how gravity pulled at him. His knees buckled and he felt the slow slide of his body as it folded toward the floor.

 

-o-

 

Dean searched the library which took all of a few minutes, since it wasn’t a very big place. Sam wasn’t in it, and no amount of searching was going to make him magically appear.

His brother should have been waiting here for him. If not he would have called. Dean yanked his phone out again. No missed calls, no messages. Growling his frustration he jogged back outside and to the Impala, peeling out of the parking lot and back to the cemetery. It was getting dark and he needed to find Sam. First, however he needed to dig up and burn a small body.

A little girl.

Dean hated that. Even if he didn’t agree with her reasons or what she had done to herself, he still hated the fact he now had to salt and burn a child.

Parking the Impala a short distance from the cemetery, Dean dug in the trunk and pulled out what he needed. Stacking it all in his arms, he expertly juggled the shovel, gas can and phone while the salt was in a small duffel slung over his shoulder. He tried Sam again. It rang a few times and went to voice mail.

Something was definitely wrong.

Get the ghost kid taken care of first then get his kid taken care of. The grave was in a more secluded part of the Fountain, so the fact it wasn’t completely dark didn’t bother Dean. He’d spent enough time there that day to know the place wasn’t well traveled. Dropping the duffel and gas can next to the grave, Dean set right in with digging, slamming the shovel into the ground and heaving up a decent sized chunk of earth. It wasn’t so long ago this grave had been created, so the going was easier than most.

Flickering off to the side made him stop and look around. Opposite him on the far side of the grave stood a girl. She was skinny, pigtails and glasses, but Dean could see in a few years she’d have been gorgeous. Hooking one foot on the shovel, he crisscrossed his arms over it and leaned against it, waiting.

“I didn’t hurt those people. They hurt me.”

“You need to move on,” Dean said. She stood staring at him. Why did this crap always work for Sam and not him?

She pointed to a spot close to some trees near the cemetery boundary. “That light? I need to go there?”

Dean nodded.

“I wanted them to hurt for what they did to me, not die. Not really.”

“Then why did you show your father your diary? You had to know what he’d do.”

“I didn’t want him to blame himself.” She turned her head, pigtails flopping against her shoulders. “If I go there, will he stop?”

“I don’t know.”

“You won’t hurt him, my Dad, will you?”

Dean sighed and shook his head. “I don’t want to and I’ll do everything not to.”

“You don’t need to dig me up. I’ll leave.” She turned away from Dean, started walking to the spot she’d pointed to.

“Hey,” Dean called after her. When she stopped and swiveled on one heel to look at him, he smiled. “You’re very pretty. It’s sort of a shame, in a few years, after you turned eighteen, I’d really have liked to take you for a drink.”

She brightened. Her whole face split into a grin; Dean preened internally, heck he could even do it to the ghost chicks.

“Really?”

“Really. Me and a bunch of other guys. I bet you’d have to beat them off with sticks.” He made a shooing motion with his hand. “Better get going now.”

She nodded and continued on her way. When she reached the trees for a few brief seconds the area seemed to glow ever so slightly brighter than the rest of the cemetery.

“Better luck next time,” Dean grumbled and repacked the dirt, gathered his supplies and headed back to the Impala.

He was replacing everything in the trunk when his phone rang. It was barely through the second ring before Dean had it fished out, saw SAM on the caller ID and answered it. “Sammy, where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling and—”

“Now, did you really expect Sam?”

“Anderson, so help me if you’ve hurt my brother you’re a dead man,” Dean growled into the phone.

The cackling laughter that answered him made his skin crawl. “/i>You two wouldn’t leave well enough alone. You wouldn’t just drive out of town. Now you both have to go. I can’t have you blabbing about me to the cops.”

“Look, dude, no one wanted your daughter hurt on purpose.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Anderson shot back. “You of all people. You know what it’s like to raise a child, love him with all your heart and watch him die. Don’t you Dean?”

Dean closed his eyes, took a deep breath, bit down on his bottom lip as his fingers tightened around the phone. “Yeah,” he croaked.

“We all have choices, Dean. You and Sam made the wrong one coming here and digging into my business.”

The phone line went dead. Snapping his phone shut, Dean swore under his breath and sprinted around the car to the driver’s side door.

 

-o-

 

Dean was halfway to Anderson’s house when he suddenly pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. He realized he was going to have to come up with some kind of plan; rushing in half-cocked was only going to get his brother killed. He needed to take the emotion out, keep his wits about him and remember everything their dad ever taught them. Now was not the time to let his heart rule his head.

You know what it’s like to raise a child, love him with all your heart and watch him die. Don’t you Dean?

Dear God. Sam was his heart.

Think. He had to think. Anderson had said ‘watch him die’ which had to mean Sam was still alive. It had to. Dean wouldn’t accept anything else.

He got out of the car and took a deep breath. Where would Anderson have taken Sam? His house? And how did that weakling manage to overpower Sam? Had to be a mind trick, somehow he’d gotten into Sam’s head with enough leverage to make Sam obey. It was probably how he’d gotten the others to kill themselves. Or, in the case of the hit and run, made the driver run over the kid and then forget he or she had done anything. Anderson was no better than poor Andy’s twin brother with how they used that mind whammy, so what if he’d spent most of his life helping people? He’d made a choice to kill—and even worse, he’d taken Sammy—and that made it open season on murdering assholes.

A few quick stretches and another couple of deep breaths and Dean climbed back into the car, ready for the upcoming battle. He was not going to let Anderson win this one. His revenge was going to end right here, right now, today, with no more victims. Especially no victims with the last name of Winchester.

He made sure to park the car around the corner from Anderson’s house; there was no need to announce his arrival with the roar of the Impala. Grateful for the tree-lined streets in this part of town he skirted around bushes, hid behind tree trunks and carefully made his way up to the side of the house. Peering around the corner he saw the driveway was empty of the red Ford truck. Scrunching down so the façade of the porch hid him from the windows he headed towards the front porch only to come to a complete stop at the steps.

Sitting on the wooden step was a toy train.

Bastard son-of-a-bitch.

Knowing it was probably a waste of time Dean hit the stairs and reached for the knob on the front door. Not locked. He hated the thought that Sam could be elsewhere right now—yeah, elsewhere, try the train tracks—while Dean nosed around the house. He had to be sure, though. You didn’t leave any stone unturned, leave anything to chance. You made sure you had your facts straight before moving on. No emotion. Use your brain, Winchester, forget it’s your little brother, the baby you raised, the young man you’re so proud of—not that you’d ever tell him. Chick-flick moment. Keep your emotions in check, stop thinking of Sam.

Sitting in the middle of the living room floor was a little toy caboose.

PART FOUR

Sam slowly opened his eyes. Something hard was digging into his shoulder blades, his lower back and down his legs. His arms hurt. Why did his arms hurt? And why couldn’t he move his feet? He bounced up and down a little, experimenting; he could move his ass, but not far. It was dusk, that time between light and dark and it was difficult to see. Moving his head made his stomach turn inside out and want to separate from its lining and he took a deep breath, trying to calm it down. Where was he and what the hell was going on?

Gradually memory came back to him. Anderson, pills, dead people and a trap for Dean. Shit. His arms were raised above his head and he tugged, experimenting. Metal. Handcuffs then. Same with his feet. He was cuffed to… he sniffed. Oil, gasoline. He was cuffed all catawampus to the… Oh, God.

“Good, you’re awake.” Anderson. “I was afraid I might have given you too much and you’d die without knowing it. You’re so big I wasn’t sure how many pills it would take to knock you out.”

“…ey..?”

“Huh? Why?”

Sam grunted and nodded. Carefully.

“You know why. I’m not finished, yet, and you and your brother are in the way.”

“S’op.”

“I can’t stop. This is how it’s going to be. Those people chose to ignore what was happening to my daughter and because of them she killed herself. I intend to rectify that as soon as you and your damn brother are out of the way. I am sorry, though, Sam. I didn’t want to have to kill the two of you. It’s your own fault though. You chose to interfere so you’re going to have to suffer the consequences.”

“Dean won’ le’ you ge’ ‘way wifis.” Hurry, Dean, please hurry.

 

-o-

 

Anderson was playing with him.

It had taken no time at all for Dean ensure the house was completely empty and get back on the road. He knew exactly where to go; the toy trains had pretty much been no-brainer clues.

You know what it’s like to raise a child, love him with all your heart and watch him die. Don’t you Dean?

Mind on the job, not on the little brother who was counting on big brother to show up for the big rescue. The sad thing was Dean knew exactly how Anderson was feeling and could honestly sympathize with him; after all, look at what he’d been willing to do to bring Sam back after Cold Oak. The difference though, the one major fact that separated both he and Sam from people like Anderson was the simple truth that they wouldn’t kill humans. As much as Dean had wanted Sam back he would never have killed another person to do it. At least not purposely; he remembered how it felt after being electrocuted to find out an innocent man had died in order for him to live.

Coming up to the train crossing, Dean pulled the car over to the side of the road and parked. Now for the hike to the spot where Stacey had died. Again grateful for the trees and bushes in this part of the country, Dean carefully crept through the woods. He stilled when he heard voices.

“Dean won’ le’ you ge’ ‘way wifis.” Sam, his voice slurred. Drugged then?

“Dean won’t have any say in this. I can make him do what I want just as easily as I did the others.”

“How … ca’ you do’is? You hep people, di’ goo’, an’ …”

“Like you wouldn’t want revenge if your brother was killed?”

“Stay cee kil herself.”

“She was driven to it!” Anderson’s voice was shrill.

Dean moved closer, making sure not to step on any dead branches or noisy leaves.

“No’ same.”

Sam really sounded out of it and Dean was afraid he wasn’t going to be any help when the time came. Then again, Anderson hadn’t yet been able to ‘mind-whammy’ him—Dean figured he had Bob and the angels to thank for that—so it would probably make it easier for Dean to take him down if Sam wasn’t an active participant.

Oh, fuck. Peering around a tree, Dean felt his heart hit his toes. Anderson had Sam handcuffed to the railroad track just waiting for Dudley Do-Right to arrive. Pulling his gun out he aimed it at the back of Anderson’s head, but before he could open his mouth Anderson spoke up.

“Welcome to the party, Dean.” He turned sideways just enough to let Dean see the gun that was trained on Sam’s head.

Shit.

“Your daughter asked me not to hurt you. I’d like to honor her request, but you’re not helping.” Dean kept his own gun aimed straight at Anderson’s heart.

“You saw her?” His voice wavered, but the gun stayed steady.

“Saw and spoke. She was happy to move on, no salt and burn required. She showed you the diary because she didn’t want you to feel guilty.”

“She showed it to me because she wanted revenge,” Anderson countered.

“She wanted them to hurt, not die. You were the one who chose to go that extra step and move from man to monster.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You told me,” Sam carefully articulated from his perch on the track, “that I could choose to use my gift for good or evil. Nobody could make me do anything I didn’t want to do.” Whatever drugs Anderson had given Sam earlier seemed to be wearing off. “When you chose to start killing people you destroyed all the good you’d done over the years. You became a worse monster than the people you were murdering.”

“I’m not a monster, they killed my daughter.”

“You murdered innocent people—children—whose only crime was typical children’s bullying and ignoring that bullying. It wasn’t their fault your daughter couldn’t deal with it,” Dean pointed out, wishing Anderson would drop his guard long enough to grab him and get the handcuffs key.

“Or felt she couldn’t come to you for help,” Sam added.

“They deserved to die,” Anderson insisted. “Now put down the gun, Dean, or I’ll shoot Sam.”

Sat in the bushes and put his rifle nozzle in his mouth.

Dean gave his head a quick shake. “Don’t do this. I don’t want to kill you.”

“You think you can kill me before I can shoot Sam?”

The click of both guns being cocked was loud, but not as loud as the distant sound of a train whistle.

Anderson smiled.

You know what it’s like to raise a child, love him with all your heart and watch him die. Don’t you Dean?

It wasn’t something he was going to watch again. The train whistle was getting closer. It was now or he was going to be watching his brother be ripped to pieces. He closed his eyes and lowered his head—but not the gun—a fraction, then pulled the trigger.

A second shot pinged off the metal of the railroad tracks as Sam started shouting. “Key, key. Pant’s pocket, Dean, it’s in his front pocket.”

Dean was moving before Sam had finished speaking, his hand grabbing the key from the moaning man. So, Dean’s shot hadn’t been a kill shot; he hadn’t expected it to be and was glad it hadn’t killed him, although he had no idea how they were going to get Anderson to the cops.

“Hurry, Dean, loud whistle, getting louder,” Sam panted as he reflexively started jerking against the handcuffs.

“Hold still, Sammy, keep still, I’ve got this.” Dean swiftly unlocked the cuffs—Christ that was a loud whistle—and yanked his brother off the tracks just as Anderson pushed against them attempting to shove them back on. “Oh, hell, no!”

Elbows, fists and feet all flying at once, Dean threw Sam away from danger as Anderson stumbled, standing straight and tall for a split second before he closed his eyes…

… and dropped to the track.

Dean closed his eyes. Yeah. That was a damn loud whistle.

 

-o-

 

Dean had Sam up, back to the Impala and firmly ensconced in the passenger seat almost before the caboose had gone by. It would take the train a while to actually slow down enough to stop, and for the cops et al to arrive, but there was no reason on earth that he and Sam had to be around for that. The engineer might have seen enough to know there was at least one other person at the tracks, but it wouldn’t really matter. Anderson’s death would most likely be classed as a suicide due to grief and depression over his daughter’s death—especially since he committed ‘suicide’ in the same place.

He gunned the engine and pulled out, fishtailing in the gravel before straightening up on the road and high-tailing it away. Beside him Sam moaned a little and Dean quickly glanced over. His brother’s eyes were closed and he was holding his head.

“You gonna puke?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“We gotta stop at the motel. I’ll grab our stuff and then we’ll blow this hick town. Find another place so you can rest.”

“’kay.”

True to his word, Dean was in and out of the hotel room in under ten minutes and they were headed out of town five minutes after that. Sam fell back to sleep before another fifteen minutes had passed not waking till Dean was pulling into a tiny motel.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” Sam got out of the car and stretched. “Still sleepy, but not planning to hurl any time soon. Where are we?”

“Pennsylvania. Greenville. I’ll get a room.”

Sam was leaning against the car, ready with their duffle bags when Dean returned with the room key. “Okay, Sammy?”

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

Dean groaned, unlocked the room and plopped down on the first bed. “We’re gonna talk aren’t we? I can’t get out of this damn chick-flick moment?”

“Yes, we are, and no, you can’t.” Sam sat on the bed next to him.

“Do we gotta hug?”

“Hell, no!” Sam was grinning at him. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as Dean feared.

“Okay. So, go ahead and emote, little brother.”

Sam took a deep breath and began. “Look. You know I’ve been worried that I’ll make the wrong choice, or that I won’t have any say when it comes down to the wire—”

“I think the whole world knows that by now,” Dean interrupted.

Sam frowned at him. “Do you want to know what I’ve decided or not?”

Dean nodded. “Sorry, Sammy. Go ahead.”

“Anderson was right about one thing: I do have a choice. I can control what I do, I can choose to use my powers for good and refuse to use them for evil. It’s my choice, what happens isn’t written in stone. I CAN CHOOSE and I choose to do the right thing. I’m going to control my destiny, such as it is, it’s not going to control me.”

Dean sat quietly, waiting for more. His brother turned towards him, his most earnest look adorning his face. “I can’t do it without you, though, Dean. I need you, I need you to be strong for me, with me. Together we can do anything. I know I can make the right choice as long as we work together. I need my big brother.”

Dean was never going to watch Sam die again. And….Sam was wrong. They did end up with a hug.


End file.
